Boys of Steel
by calicoskies4ever
Summary: Lex has a complicated relationship with his father and the only thing he wants from him, is the one thing Lionel won’t give to him. Throughout his first few days in down he comes to realize that moving to Smallville won’t be too terrible. Warnings inside
1. Heart Of Stone

This stared out as an "alternate ending" for the pilot episode, and turned into the first chapter of a completely different story. Lex has a complicated relationship with his father, and the only thing he wants from the man is the one thing Lionel won't give to him. Throughout the course of his first few days in down he comes to realize that moving to Smallville won't be too terrible, even if he feels isolated, lonely, and will miss his dad, and his life. Chapter one: in which the young Luthor calls his father after nearly dying, and asks for the older man's help. Warnings for Luthorcest, cusswords, alternate universe, OOC, mentions of illegal activities, and a sexual relationship between Lex and Clark to follow.

"No room for the innocent  
Peak season in lonely town  
Knocked out of the ring by love  
Are you down and up Or up and down  
I ask the river for a sign  
(In a dream we go on together)  
How long is love supposed to shine  
(In a dream diamonds are forever)  
But you and I, we hurt together, hurt alone  
Don't you sometimes wish  
Your heart was a heart of stone," Cher.

I called my father, not to beg to be allowed home (although that was in the back of my mind) but because I needed him, and so you can imagine how I felt when he answered the phone with, "Lex, it's been five hours. No, you can not come home yet," rather than asking if I had gotten there alright and was okay, or at least saying 'hello, Son, how are you?' As always, my father's voice was cold and distant. He obviously hadn't heard about my accident yet. At least, I hoped as much, because if the man could hear that his son had been technically dead for several minutes and still remain calm, cool, and collected, then I didn't know if I would ever be able to reconnect with him, assuming we had been connected in the first place. I've been told I run my hand over my head when I'm nervous or upset, but I'm only aware of it about four or five percent of the time. This happened to be one of those instances. "What, no clever comeback? No name calling? I'm impressed. Perhaps you could be maturing after all."

"I just wanted to call and warn you that I'm probably going to make the morning papers," I explained. His chuckling stopped. _What have you done now?_ "When you tried to call me this afternoon, I dropped my cell phone, and looked away from the road for half a second. Someone dropped a large roll of barbed wire in the middle of the road. I tried to avoid it, but there wasn't any time. I couldn't...stop. Quadruple blowout," I started, but needed to take a deep breath before continuing. "The Porsche spun out, over this bridge, and it—I plunged into the river."

"But you got out?" Now it was my turn to be impressed, with his response. Obviously Lionel wondered if I had been drinking or was high, which I wasn't. I could count on one hand the number of drinks I'd had in the past two months, half of them from this evening, after I got back to the castle. "Lex?" There was a hint of concern in his voice, although I very much doubted that it was for my safety. He was just worried about our 'family honor.' "Son?"

"I hit my head and was knocked unconscious, apparently my heart stopped, and I wasn't breathing. I was technically dead. Some farm kid had to fish me out, and perform CPR. If he hadn't of been there, you'd be getting an entirely different call right about now. Just thought you'd wanna know…before you see it on the front page."

"Was anyone else involved?" What Lionel really meant was, 'did you hit someone on your way into the river? Did you hurt someone? What exactly did you do and how many people am I going to have to pay off to keep this quiet?' I briefly considered telling him the truth, that I thought I had hit the Kent kid, but knew exactly how he'd respond. _You did WHAT?_ _Good God Lex, what is the matter with you? Is the young man alright? How badly was he injured? I can't trust you to be alone for five minutes! Perhaps Smallville isn't far enough away. I don't know what I'm going to do with you now._ And then the dial tone would follow.

"No, the kid was the only witness, and he's fine. I wasn't drinking. I haven't gotten high since that night at Club Zero, and then it was just one hit of ecstasy. That was eight months ago. I—didn't call to ask you to clean up my mess for me," I told him, feeling as my hand reached for my scalp, and shoving it into my pocket. "I wanna see you." _I need to see you,_ I thought, but didn't say.

"Do you really expect me to drive the three hours to Smallville and back, just so I can hold you while you can cry into my shirt and beg me to let you move back to Metropolis?" he asked, but it sounded strange. Despite the word choice, he wasn't scolding me. My father wanted to—well I wasn't completely sure what he was planning, bit the man was up to something. I was sitting in the chair, behind my desk, but stood up, walked to the brown, leather sofa, and curled up on my side, facing the pool table, and a window. I already didn't like this place. It smelled damp, and slightly moldy. There were all these creaking sounds, and the rooms echoed. Plus the place was spartanly furnished, with only a tiny amount of decorations; you know paintings, photographs, art, etc. Like all of his homes and offices, there were no family photos. As far as I knew Lionel had exactly two personal pictures anywhere, and those were on his desk, (he used those to make people think he's a family man) one of him holding me—nine-years-old, newly bald, and miserable—in his lap, another of him, mom, and me, at home. He stood behind her, while she sat on a chair, and I was on the floor in front of them.

"You could take the chopper and be here in 45 minutes. I—Dad, please. I almost died. If you don't want me around because I've been bad, or because I'm a screw up, or whatever, that's okay. I don't expect to be allowed to come home. But I, I—I need you," I sobbed. I could practically hear him nod over the phone. I considered calling him daddy, but knew he'd only come and hold me—awkwardly—no sex, no love, none of what I needed.

"I'll be there in an hour. I don't have to be at work until noon tomorrow," he said, voice still empty, uncaring. I got up off the couch, walked up to the room where the servants had placed my bags and tried to find my sexist outfit. The problem was that Lionel wasn't like the guys or girls I met when I went clubbing. At the age of sixteen, I pulled on leather pants and a mesh-t-shirt, and hid in is bedroom as a surprise for his birthday. He just looked at me and laughed. "What are you doing," he'd asked. "You look like one of those village people. Now go get dressed before somebody sees you like that." He then added that he wasn't sure which was more ridiculous, the shirt or the pants. Later that night—after the party—I went out in the exactly same outfit. Two guys came up to me on the dance floor of my favorite club, pressed up against my body, and stuffed their hands down the front of my pants. I went into a bathroom stall with each of them, separately. One guy got on his knees on the floor, and sucked me off. An hour later, the other grabbed my arms, pushed me up against the wall, and we fucked, and while quick, it was not entirely terrible.

Fifteen minutes after the second encounter, another man came up to me and offered $5,000 for the night. I didn't care about the money, but I was sixteen, wasted, and pissed off, I did it, hopping he was a cop so that I'd cause a scandal. The guy was weird, gave me a bubble bath, asked me to call him Daddy, and he got very excited when he saw that I didn't have any pubic hair. That was my fist and last trick. Just didn't do anything for me, whereas the drugs and the booze, and others stuff helped dull some of the hurt I often felt. I started digging trough the suitcases, eventually coming out with a pair of snug but comfortable, black trousers, and a silky, white shirt.

Lionel took a whole forty six minutes longer to get to Smallville than he said he would, which got me pacing, checking my watch, sitting down, dialing his cell phone and hanging up before it went through. Then I stood up, walked over to the bar where I picked up the brandy, put the carafe down, and started the whole processes over again. When he finally showed up, I was on the final step of the process, my fifth time through. I dropped the booze. "How many of those have you had?" _When did you start? Where you drinking before the accident? How much? _Every single thing he said had multiple meanings, and usually if he asked me a question it was really just the beginning of an interrogation, even if I hadn't done anything wrong.

"I'm cold. Apparently almost drowning does that to a person. They wanted to keep me in the hospital overnight," I told him, honestly. I don't like hospitals, and the last thing I need is to miss my first real day of work because I had been driving carelessly. He tried to smile, but it wasn't all that convincing, reaching out to stroke my face. He pressed a finger against my lips. "So now I'm not even allowed to speak?"

"Of course you are, but that's no reason to be melodramatic," he instructed, rubbing my shoulders nonetheless. "You're alright now, aren't you?" I wasn't sure how to respond to this, but nodded. "Don't you lie to me, Lex. You're upset, no? If you'd rather keep quiet we can do that, but I assume you didn't just ask me here for empty sex. I'm sure even here you could find something to do about that. Come on, kiddo. I want you to tell me how you feel."

"I don't wanna talk right now," I lied. I just didn't want him to lecture me and make everything worse. He shook his head, pressing his lips against my temple. It figures, the one time in my life that I didn't want to have a long, drawn out conversation, is the one time that he did. "When I was going over that bridge, and I thought I was about to die, all I could think was, _it can't be over_. This can't be it. I thought about how Mom always used to say 'of course your father loves you; he just doesn't know how to show it,' and then you—but you never once proved it. You never—I think… I felt like my life was nothing. I've done nothing, created nothing, never loved anybody. Not really, just you and Mom. I know now that you don't—what am I doing? I can't talk to _you_ about _this_!" I couldn't believe what I was doing. I _never_ talked about my feelings. I tried to pretend like I didn't have any around him, because if he ever knew what I was really like, he wouldn't be able to get away from me fast enough. I had worked so hard to build up a wall around my heart, making it stronger, and he came in and bulldozed it in seconds.

"Why? Do you think I'm a monster, that I don't care about your feelings, or worse that I actually believe those things you just said? Lex, you are not worthless, and I do care for you, Lex. You're my son, good or bad, happy or melancholy, here or with me, whether or not you let me make love to you, healthy or sick, and as far as those other things go. You're still young. You have plenty of time to show the world just how spectacular you can be, and you _are _spectacular, understand?"

"I—uh," I paused, taking in a deep breath, stepping backwards. Lionel grabbed my hands, pulling me in close to his body, hugging me, and kissing the top of my head. "I just, nobody ever says stuff like that to me—well you don't, and I need to hear it."

"You never answered my question, not honestly. Are you all aright?" I shrugged my shoulders, this time in an attempt to switch the conversation to something else. You understand why I sent you here, right, Lex?" I understood why I sent you here, right, Lex?" I understood why _he_ thought he had to, but that didn't mean I agreed with his logic, or that he was right. Lionel had always ignored me, and the worse things got, the more I acted out to try and get him to love me, and the worse I behaved, the more he seemed to hate me. He said he cared about me, but I didn't fully believe him and what's worse I had been trying to be good lately, and I had succeeded in staying out of trouble for several months, with the exception of my latest arrest, but that one wasn't even my fault. I got caught speeding, but when the idiot tried to write me a ticket, he had to call it in, and was told I wasn't supposed to get tickets. The cop was pissed, and followed me around for two weeks, waiting for me to do something wrong.

Three weeks ago, I went into a nightclub, ordered a drink, finished about half of it, hung out for a while, and got back into my car. I wasn't drunk, but he pulled me over, right after I got out of the parking lot, arrested me for driving under the influence, and brought me in. I blew a .01, but he wrote it down .10, and I ended up spending the night in a holding cell. I told Lionel the truth. He got the charges dropped, and the guy was fired, but the story made all the papers, _Luthor Boy DUI,_ despite the fact that I hadn't done anything wrong, and I guess this was the straw that broke the camels back or whatever.

Dad kicked me out, and I was going to be stuck here in Siberia, until I proved myself worthy of his greatness. "I'll take that as a no," he said after several minutes of silence. I allowed a quickly, simple nod. He sighed, pushing our bodies down onto the sofa, both of us laying close, his legs curled around mine, face pressed against the top of my head. "I know that you've been trying to be good lately, and I appreciate that, but…right now, you're being watched, and bad things keep happening around you. I don't hate you, Son, and I don't want you gone, but we need you to be out of sight for some time, and while I could lock you in the house all day long, I think you'll be good for this place. I think being here will make you a better leader."

'Working in a crap factory with a bunch of ass-kissing morons is gonna help me how? Couldn't you have found a job and a town that don't completely suck?" He sighed, massing my shoulders. "Tell me what you want, and I'll do it, I swear. No more clubs. I'll sit in the back of the limo, so I can't get into accidents or drive 'drunk,' or anything, I'll stop swearing, marry some random society girl, and stay faithful. I'll give up, sell, my comic books!" He kissed my forehead. "Do you…why?" I sobbed, pressing my face into his chest. Dad was breathing oddly, almost as if he were close to tears himself, but he never cried. "I just wanna come home. I hate it here. I'll never be happy in this Hell-hole." It was risky, letting my father see me in this state, crying, weak, pathetic, and needy, but I could be pretty manipulative—learned from the master—and if I played my cards right, he would spend the whole weekend here, which would allow me more time to convince him to bring me home.

"It's okay," he whispered patronizingly. "I'm here, and I'm not going to leave. Lex, it's important for you to understand why I did this. I don't own the whole world, nor the country. I have most of this state, but…there aren't very many places for you to go. I could send you hide out at the beach house for a year or two, but we both know you'll get bored, go out, have fun, be yourself, and something will happen. Lex, I want to be with you more than anything, but you still need to grow up. Hey, this is not all bad. Let's make a deal." He pressed his lips against the back of my head, gently. "You stay here, do your job, be a good boy, turn this plant around, and prove to me, prove to the world, what an incredible, amazing, brilliant, and talented young man you are. I'll come and visit you every weekend, on your birthday, my birthday, Christmas, Thanksgiving, whatever. Then, in a couple of months, maybe a year—at most—I will bring you back home. You'll come and work with me—as my full partner—in Metropolis. How does that sound?" Once again, I wasn't sure what to say. I mean sure, it sounded like a good idea. It was, in fact, the best idea I had ever heard, but I highly doubted that Lionel would keep his word. My father had been breaking promises he made to me as long as I could remember. He hugged me, lifting my face up in his hand, kissing me on the mouth. "Well? Are you in, or am I going to have to leave empty handed, so to speak?" I shrugged, dropping my face back into his shoulder, and inhaling deeply. He smelled good, something slightly fruit-like from his shampoo, sandalwood cologne, and a hint of scotch on his breath.

"Can I sleep on it?" I asked, quickly rubbing my sleeve over my eyes to dry them, and then starting to play with the buttons on his shirt. Lionel took my wrists, wrapping his hands around them, tightly, but not too roughly. "You really gonna…do you actually want me to stop?" I tried to pull my hands away, attempting to touch his face but he wouldn't let go. "I don't know, okay? Are you happy?"

"You don't believe me," Lionel said, realizing it slowly. "Hey, come here, let me, there you go. No, no, don't fight; just lay still. We're not going to do anything, except lay still, okay? There you go, Buddy, and I don't suppose there's anything I can do to convince you that I meant what I said, huh?" I shook my head. "Okay, well I guess I'll just have to prove it to you." _Yeah; right_, I thought. _Just like that time when I was six and you said my class could go on a fieldtrip to your office, and I told everybody, but you 'forgot,', or when you used to promise to come to the ranch with us—and not work—but left in the middle of the first week, or after Mom died and you let me stay at home for the funeral, and promised I would never be alone again, but shipped me off to Excelsior after two months._ My father _never_ kept his promises, and he sure as Hell wasn't going to start now. But, unfortunately I knew that Lionel wasn't going to give in on this one. So, I told him what he wanted to hear so we could get on to what I really wanted to do.

"Okay, fine, whatever. If that's what you want." Dad stared at me curiously for several minutes, studying my face, as if trying to read my mind. Obviously he knew that I was lying, but he didn't call me on it. "Now can we do something besides argue about Smallville?" He cracked a small smile, and touched my cheek with his palm again. He pressed his lips to mine, pushing them open, tongue slipping inside. We stood up, kissing, and bodies pushed together, making out, pulling at each others clothes, until we made it upstairs, and into the bedroom.

"This is an interesting room, why did you pick it, Lex?" Lionel unbuttoned my shirt, sliding it down, over my shoulders, and ran his hands all along my body, stopping at my hips. "You know, if I'm not mistaken, this room was once a nursery."

"The servants put my bag in here. I let her pick, since I couldn't care less. Not like I'm gonna need a lot of room, or a big bed, or a ton of privacy. "Good staff members know how to avoid the homeowners, and as such, I wouldn't have to worry about anyone walking in on us fucking or on me playing with or talking to myself, or crying, or doing whatever the heck it is that people do for fun in Smallville Kansas." Dad grabbed my hands, pushing me down onto the bed, kneeling around me, his legs on either side of my chest, fingers gently kneading into my lower abdomen, playing with my flesh, tickling me. I couldn't help laughing. He slowly popped the button on my fly, drawing the zipper down, and slipping them off too. All of this happened within maybe two minutes. Then, my father slid down on the mattress, kissing the soft, hairless flesh right above my cock. He paused.

"Lex, this is very important. I do care for you. I do love you, and I always will. We don't get a long very well, it's not entirely my fault or yours," he started to say, and I thought I was going to die. I couldn't believe it! My father was going to lecture me while performing fellatio.

"Not now. I mean, you can say you love me, but don't you dare start outlining our problems, or lecturing me on my faults when you're about to put my dick in your mouth." He sighed, but nodded, kissing my thighs, hips, pelvis, belly, all around, but not actually touching my penis.

"I wasn't lying before," he said, before taking my full length in his mouth, and sucking, licking, kissing, touching me perfectly. It was, perhaps, the best blow job I'd ever had, maybe it's because he said I love you first. I dunno. I lay back, afterwards, catching my breath. "I take it that was satisfactory, no?" he taunted, lying down beside me, neatly, as if he were in total control over his body, along with everything else in this world. "Can you speak?" This seemed to be his greatest concern. If my brain had melted and I was no longer capable of vocalizing, I'd be a disgrace, a useless lump, unable to contribute anything to anyone, at anytime. I nodded, still a bit hazy, despite the swelling anger. I hated my father in that moment because he—without even trying, without even realizing it—made me feel both amazing and worthless in less than a minute. I curled up beside him, silently, allowing my father to wrap an arm around me possessively. "Uh-oh. I know that face. You're upset with me. What did I do now?"

"Why did you ask me if I could talk? Do you really think I'm so goddamn simple-minded that a good fucking will cause my brain to—" Lionel grabbed me again, almost shaking my body. He seemed horrified by my comments, or mortified, or something. He cut me off.

"No! Look, listen to me, Lex. Lex, this—is important. I know, I've been saying that a lot tonight. And maybe I'm not doing you any favors jumping from intense conversation to sex and then back again. You're sensitive, and even though you only asked me over here for this, I think that perhaps you needed the conversation more than the physical contact. The only reason I said what I said, was because you looked happy, and sometimes you can't speak when you feel amazing. I wanted to be certain you were there. I wanted to take you to that place because you've had such a rough day." _Oh, _I thought. I lay my head against his shoulder, pretending I was a hundred times stronger than I actually was. He held me for a while, whispering, "that's my boy," and "It's okay now. You're safe. You can relax. I'm here. I've got you," over and over and over, until I fell asleep. Even though I was expecting it, my heart still sank when I woke up and found that I was alone. Lionel had disappeared while I was asleep, but left a note.

_Something came up, and I had to go to work early. Either be good, or be bad and don't get caught. I'll see you next week. _

No names. Nothing personal. This was worse than the abandonment thing. I hated myself for believing that he could ever actually care about me, but climbed out of bed dressed, went downstairs. I then tried to convince myself that the previous night had been nothing except a dream. None of those things could have happened, and even if they had, Lionel wouldn't be returning once a week, until I "proved myself" ready to return. He'd show up maybe three times (probably less), and then he'd miss a week, after calling with an excuse. He'd come back with whatever copy of Warrior Angel his secretary had picked up at a newsstand earlier in the day, which he would have stuffed into his briefcase and wrinkled or creased; Lionel and my version of chocolates and flowers. We'd spend two days fucking each other's brains out, while he apologized, maybe even bringing me into the city for a nice dinner. Soon the phone calls explaining his absence and my cheep, crappy comics would stop. He'd either show up or he wouldn't, each visit becoming less and less regular. Within six months, he _would_ leave me, and I'd be stuck in Smallville forever, alone and forgotten. _I hate my life, _I thought, heading to my office, and calling Heike, my fencing instructor, promising twice the usual fee if she would drive all the way out here. She did, but _I _was completely useless, and ended up nearly impaling the Kent kid with my foil.

After apologizing, I asked what I really wanted to know, "how did you get in here?" As happy as I was to see this gorgeous, rippling-muscled, fresh-faced, young beauty, I knew enough to keep my hands to myself until I was ready for his redneck father to blow my head off.

"I squeezed through the bars in the front gate," he offered, innocently, smiling. "My parents won't let me keep the truck." He handed the keys back, pausing as our hands touched. "Sorry," he said, looking down at the floor. "It was really nice. I wanted it, but…I'm sorry."

"No, it's my fault. I was careless, and…probably should have spoken to your folks before handing over such an extravagant gift. I guess I'll have to come up with another way to pay you back. Something a bit more personal." He actually blushed when I said this, ears and cheeks bright reddish-pink, lips curling back into the smile. I almost made a move on the kid. It was obvious he liked me, but I reminded myself that—even if I was reading him correctly—he was just a stupid, little boy. He probably didn't even know what sex was, let alone sex with another man. _No_, I thought, _leave this one alone_ "I guess you'll have to settle for my friendship. Or I can set up a college fund you—and the rest of the world—won't be able to touch until your 18. Even parents can't make you do stuff when you're grown up. Except in my case, but that's only 'cuz he'd disown me and make it so I'd never get a real job, and—sorry. I'm probably boring your pants off." If it was ever possible for someone to literally turn the color of a tomato, Clark did it then.

"Maybe we could try the friend thing out first. I mean, unless you don't like me or something." Clark placed a thumb on his lip, pulling it down slightly. _Is he flirting with me? _He had the most adorable little pouty face. I smiled, touching his hand, shaking it gently.

"I don't really know you," I said, playfully. _Stop it! _I stuffed my hand in my pocket, pinching my testicles, roughly. It took a moment before I could speak again, and then I added, "but I'm sure we'll get along fine. I may be a spoiled brat, but I'm a nice spoiled brat. Luckily I take after my other more than my father." I said something about apples falling far from trees, and the kid told me he was adopted. We played pool, shared some more personal stories. Well, actually he did most of the sharing. He told me about how he didn't have any real friends. There was some guy named Pete, who spent most of his time with a bunch of older brothers, and a girl named Chloe who was more interested in the school paper and researching the meteor shower than hanging out.

"So, usually I just stay at the farm, and wait for it to get dark, so I can use my telescope…I look at the moon and stuff. Not, you know—I walked in on Pete trying to check out Lana, the girl who lives next door, with it, but she wasn't home. Since then, I won't let him near the thing."

"I know what that's like. Sort of. Between the hair thing, and the fact that my IQ was higher than the two smartest kids in school combined, I wasn't exactly prom king material. I didn't mind once I learned to defend myself, and stopped getting my head shoved in toilets and stuff," I lied. No matter what they say, every teenager wants a friend or two. Popularity is one thing, homecoming court is one thing, but everybody needs someone to talk to. The kid must have sensed this, because he hugged me, shy, and completely innocently, although he did linger.

"So what happ—I mean…does it hurt?" He meant my hair or rather lack there of. Everybody asks, eventually, but this was a first. Usually, I get _are you bald…all over_, _are you sick/ is it contagious, _or _how did THAT happen? _I shook my head. "Good," he said, and let it drop. When he left, he hugged me again, I watched him through the window, as he disappeared down the driveway, and around the corner, thinking that maybe we could be friends after all. Maybe Smallville wouldn't be the worst thing that ever happened to me. Maybe.


	2. Run Away

I was both right and wrong about Lionel coming to visit me. At the end of my first week in Smallville, two very important things happened to me. First, I found Clark in a cornfield, naked, and tied to a pole, and rescued the kid. Unfortunately, he ran off before anything could happen. Then, on Saturday, I set up candles, filled a tub with bubble bath, poured us some glasses of champagne, stripped off my clothes, and climbed into the water to wait for him. Three hours later, the man called to tell me that he wouldn't make it until the next evening. I sighed, ran a hand over my head, finished the rest of the champagne, cried, and crawled into bed. I woke up the next morning, more pissed than hurt, and—luckily for me—the Kent kid showed up, in the early afternoon.

"Are you okay," I asked, keeping my physical distance, unsure as to what exactly he had been through. Generally speaking, teenage boys don't strip another boy's clothes off—not including consensual sex, which doesn't usually end with somebody getting crucified—unless it's for one of two reasons. Either they want to embarrass the naked boy, and Clark had nothing to be ashamed of, or…well, the other reason usually involves some sort of sexual abuse. He shrugged.

"It was nothing," the kid lied, looking at me as though I were out of my mind for worrying about him. "I lost Lana's necklace." This seemed to be his biggest concern, even though he'd already said he didn't like her as more than a friend. I told him I'd found the thing, handing it over.

"I don't believe you. It wasn't nothing. Clark, they left you tied to a pole in the middle of a field! Even the Roman's saved that for special occasions." He didn't seem to get the reference.

"It's a tradition," he excused. I wasn't really sure what to say. I wanted to reply, so was…and then remind him of some sick, disturbing, out-dated tradition that civilized people had long since given up.

"Those guys didn't _hurt_ you, did they?" I was careful with my question, making sure that I didn't scare him in case they had done something, or weird him out if they hadn't.

"I just don't—I'm pretty…it was nothing." This time the words weren't nearly as strong. "They jumped me in the parking lot, and punched me a couple of times. Whitney threw me in his truck-bed, and he…most of them went in their own trucks, or in the cab."

"Was there anybody else in the back with you?" He shook his head. "But they did hit you? They beat you up?" The kid nodded. "Used to happen to me all the time. I can teach you to fight, if you want."

"I think I'll be okay.' He flashed me a quick smile. "You wanna play pool?" he asked, standing right next to me, so close that—were he less gorgeous, and sweet—it usually would have made me uncomfortable. I smiled, and said, sure. "I'm not very good at it. Can you give me some pointers?" I smiled, first trying to show him how to do it, but Clark insisted that he needed physical assistance. So, I stood behind him, my hands on top of his, and helped him shoot. We took a couple turns, but he still wasn't doing very well, or he was pretending to suck so that we could stand like that. After a couple more plays, he started to squirm, his blue jean-clad ass rubbing against the front of my trousers.

"Um—Clark, that's maybe to the best position—to uh…I mean, what—what are you, what are you doing?" I croaked, sliding my hand down his arm, interlacing my fingers with his. He blushed, slightly, taking a step forward.

"I forgot. I hafta go home and…uh—bale some hay," he squeaked. Before the kid raced out of the room, I managed to get a quick glimpse of his crotch, pants streaked tight over an erection. _Crap, _I thought. _I scared the poor guy off. Now, I'll never see him again._ Lionel showed up three hours later, and found me running up and down the stone staircase, dressed in an over sized t-shirt, and sweat pants.

"What in the Hell are you doing?" he demanded.

"There are forty rooms in this place, and not one of them is a gym, or has gym equipment. I needed to work off some steam, and …I've been slacking off food-wise. I had French toast, eggs, bacon, milk, coffee, and hash browns for breakfast."

"You thought I wasn't going to show up, didn't you?" I shrugged. To be honest, I hadn't spent much time thinking about him since the incident Clark. "How was your week," he asked, climbing the stairs, and grabbing me by the arm so I'd hold still. "Was it really that terrible?"

"Work sucked, but I made a new friend." He smiled, leading me towards the bathroom, for a shower. "Actually, it's the same kid who pulled me out of the river. He was just here a couple of hours ago."

"Hmm," Lionel murmured, completely uninterested.

"If you don't care, then why even bother asking?" Dad didn't respond, in fact, he didn't say much of anything, aside from the gasps, grunts, and one quick, "that's my boy," until after we'd finished with our shower, and spent the evening rolling around between the sheets. Then, I fell asleep in his arms again. He did stay this time, for a couple of hours. I awoke to find him rubbing my shoulders. Then Lionel moved to my thighs, massaging them.

"Now, are you going to tell me what's bothering you, or do I have to threaten to leave to get it out of you?" I pretended to be very interested in something on the back of my hand. "You were running up and down steps. My guess is that you had been doing it for at least an hour. You only exercise obsessively when you're upset." _Forty minutes,_ I thought, _shows how much you know_. I must have been staring because he then added, "I might not discuss your problems, but that doesn't mean I don't know anything, or care about you, understand?" I nodded. "Tell me what's wrong?"

"I think Clark may have been flirting with me," I admitted.

"Your new friend?" I nodded again. "And this is a bad thing…because you don't find him attractive?" he taunted. I just shrugged. "No, that's not it. Lex, I don't like guessing games. Tell me what's wrong." Lionel laid his hand across my shoulder.

"He's fourteen," I said stalling. Lionel squeezed my arm. "And this isn't Excelsior, or Metropolis. I'm in Smallville. It's the middle of nowhere, and…I could be wrong. We were playing pool, not making out. He _asked_ me to help him. So I stood behind the kid, and showed him how to move his arms, position himself to sink difficult shorts." Lionel chuckled. "What did I do now?"

"Lex, I don't think that young man could have been clearer if he had torn off all his clothes and sprayed whipped cream on his genitals." I pushed away from him. "You think he might be completely naïve and that if you try something, he might get scared and then you will have ruined everything, including your ability to stay here without getting shot or hanged, hmm?"

"Well there's that, and…" _I've never had a friend in my whole life, and here comes this sweet, wonderful, amazing little kid who actually likes me! I can't screw this up._ "He's—he likes me!" _And even you don't like me. _

"I don't know if it's the same with men as it is with women, but the only advice I can give you is this. When it comes to someone you have feelings for, there are two choices. Either do nothing, hope the other person makes the first move, and maybe wait the rest of your life, or you can go for it, and maybe things will work out, maybe you won't, but at least you will know you tried." I sighed, and started to get out of bed, but he grabbed me yet again, and pulled me in close for one more hug. "What are you going to regret more, spending your whole life wondering what could have been, or having a relationship with somebody who loves you?"

"Oh for heavens sake! Even when you're trying to be a good father, you act like a total creep! It's not that simple. Clark Kent is a high school freshman from Bumblefuck Kansas, who probably thinks that that the word gay means happy!"

"Did you say Kent?" he asked, running a hand across my face, and down my neck, softly.

"Yeah, how do you—you know him? You know his family?" He nodded. "How is that even possible? You haven't been in Smallville since the meteor shower," I gasped.

"That's when I met the Kent's," he said, without elaborating. I wanted to scream. I_ hate _it when he does that. Wouldn't it be easier for him to just not respond, rather than giving me half of the "truth," fully knowing that I'm going to go nuts and rip my non-existent hair out, trying to find out what he's hiding. I suddenly realized something. Lionel knew exactly what those little half-truths did to me, and he loved that, because it gives him even more control over me, my actions, and my behavior.

"When exactly did this happen? Between screwing over the Ross family, dodging meteorites, and neglecting a sick, depressed, nine-year-old—who, by the way, nearly had a heart attack because you held him captive in a helicopter until he "got over" his fear of heights—to the point of almost killing him, you had a busy day." Lionel raised his hand to strike me, but stopped when he saw the terrified, sad look in my eyes. I vaguely remembered him hitting me once before, but couldn't figure out what for.

"They drove us to the hospital. That family saved your life. Apparently twice, now." He tried to smile, gently and reached to touch the side of my face. I pulled away, and begged, "Don't. He let me go, and scooted away to the other side of the bed. Lionel looked guilty for a millisecond. Then, he went back to being his usual, heartless self. "I have to be at the office early tomorrow, big merger. If you want, I'll stay, but it would be better if I left."

"You have to work, go work." Once again, I tried to sound brave, and strong, like I didn't care, but in reality, I was still that same, sad little boy, desperately seeking his father's love, approval, and time.

"Lex," he said, laying a hand on my bare shoulder. "Come here," he demanded. I rolled over, pretending to fall asleep. "I'll see you next week," he promised, but of course he didn't. Lionel didn't return for months, but it didn't really matter. I was busy in Smallville. I was happy. Sort of. Not really. But at least Clark came back to the mansion after a few days. He arrived early—for me at least—exactly one week after running out. I thought it would take at least twice that long. It was a pleasant surprise, especially in comparison to my father's lack of a visit, call, fax, or even so much as a memo.

Clark rang the bell this time, and some servant with a giant mole on his cheek escorted the kid to my office/ the library.

"Hey," he whispered, not looking me in the eyes. 'I um—I'm really sorry about what I did the last time I was here. It wasn't anything personal. I just…something embarrassing happened, and I didn't want you to know about it." He blushed, actually fucking blushed.

"I think I know what you're talking about." His ears flushed bright pink. "It's nothing to be embarrassed by. It happens to every man in the universe. Mostly the reaction is involuntary, and it doesn't necessary have anything to do with sex stuff," I explained, gently, giving him a small pat on the shoulder. "I once got one in biology while dissecting a frog." Clark looked up at me all wide-eyed and amazed. I flashed a quick little smile at him. "So, are we okay again?" I asked, trying to make myself look all sweet and innocent. He nodded. "Maybe we should try something with a little less physical contact this time, unless you….I don't—I'm not disgusted or anything by you were really uncomfortable. I figured we could watch a movie, or read comic books, or play video games."

"We could shoot hoops," he offered.

"You've got a major height and strength advantage on me," I explained, although it wasn't even close to my real reason. I didn't think I could be that close to him, physically, and not mount, maul, or molest the poor teen. I wanted him so bad, but—at the same time—I was smart enough to know trouble when I saw it coming.

"You could always run me over with the car, and kneecap me," he smirked.

"Oh good, I was worried you might be bitter about that whole nearly killing you thing." He sort of shrugged, still looking at me like I was some sweet, wonderful angel, instead of a pervert with a hard on, for some ignorant farm kid.

"Or we could mess around." I must have jumped ten feet off the ground when he said that, and then touched my hip. I gasped, turning around to try and cover my suddenly too tight slacks. "Sorry I shouldn't have said that. I'll go now, and you'll never hafta see me again. Nobody will."

"Hey," I whispered, gently, touching, and then lifting up his face in my hands, so I could look him in the eyes. "Are you trying to tell me what I think you're trying to tell me?" He nodded, tears streaming down his cheeks. "And you've never told anybody that you think you might be—before now?"

"I tried to tell my dad. We were talking about girls, and dating, and him wanting me to ask Chloe out, and I said, "what I liked guys?" He started screaming, and calling me a freak, and stuff. That was an hour ago. I ran out, and I don't think I'm going back. Ever. I was so upset I didn't even grab clothes or anything."

"You can stay here as long as you want, but Clark, I gotta tell you, this just isn't smart. Speaking as somebody who understands complicated father-son relationships, I gotta say, your dad really seems to love you. Now, I'm not saying that he has any right to hurt or treat you badly, but—give him another chance. Go talk to him, just wait a while, let the guy calm down. I'll call your mom later, and see if she will let you spend the night in one of the guest bedrooms, okay?" He shrugged. "I know you're underage, but—at your size, half a glass of wine or something will calm you down without making you sick, or drunk—do you want something?' He nodded, downing two glasses of scotch in four sips. I was worried at first, but Clark didn't seem effected in at all.

"Can I stay with you," he begged, leaning forward, and giving me a quick, shy closed-mouth kiss on the lips. I ran a hand through his black curls. _God, I'd give anything to have head buried in my lap_, I thought.

"I'm just worried that I'll—I…look if you're scared, and hurt, and confused, and we do something…it could really mess you up. First time—especially with a man—is terrifying, painful, embarrassing, messy, and it's beautiful, fun, incredible, and amazing, but—I'm not rejecting you, that's really, really, really important for you to know. I want us to do this. One day, eventually, when you're ready, but if I don't—if we do this too soon, it's going to be more traumatic than good, and could put you off of sex for years." He grunted, wiping his eyes, on his shirt sleeve.

"But you don't think I'm a freak?" I couldn't believe my ears. I hugged him, tightly.

"No, you're gay. It's a completely normal variation—that came out wrong. People like you and me might not make up the majority of the world, but there are millions of us. Besides, you're fourteen. You're supposed to run around and screw everything and everyone in sight." Kid shook his head, violently, and latched back onto me. "Alright, then don't. Some people are…I promise, you're normal. Everybody feels this kind of stuff." Clark laughed, quietly. "It's going to be okay. You're going to be okay."

"I'm not normal," he muttered. I kissed the top of his head, hugged, and held him for what felt like a really long time. Eventually, the two of us made our way to the sofa, and laid down, Clark's face buried in my shoulder, eyes red, nose all stuffed up, his chest rising and falling slowly. I did what I could to sooth him, rubbing his back, and shoulders, gently, whispering in his ear over and over, and over, _it's okay. You're okay. You'll see, everything is going to be alright. _"I've been thinking about you a lot," he told me, pressing forward, and kissing my cheek. "And I—you know, thinking about _us_. I even had this dream where you bent me over the pool table, and then we did it, and you and I kind of melted into one big, happy person." He smiled weakly.

"I like the way that sounds," I explained, leaning in and giving him another, gentle, closed-mouth kiss.

"I even went up to the Luthorcorp website, and found a picture of you and your dad. I cut him out of it, and printed the picture out," he said blushing. I felt my own cheeks burn a little too. "You're really ho—yearly, sorry. You probably think I'm an idiot." I smiled, and shook my head._ No, everybody says stupid stuff when they like somebody._ Clark's face practically lit up.

"I like you too, Clark. You're cute—sort of."

"Really?"

"I'm letting you sleep in my bed, aren't I?" He giggled, again, and yawned. "If you're tired you should get some rest. I'm not going anywhere, honest." Clark started to relax, and soon fell asleep—he later admitted that he'd been awake for nearly 50 hours—and I picked up the phone, dialed his home number. Martha Kent answered.

"Hello?" Her voice and tone were almost identical to that of my mother's. "Clark, is that you?" I only noticed just then noticed that my hand was on top of my head. I yanked it down.

"It's Lex—Luthor. I know I'm probably the last person you'd ever want to hear from, but Clark is here. He's asleep," I explained, praying she wouldn't tell me to wake him, or worse, question my motives.

"In your room?"

"Well, technically I—or rather, my father—own this whole house so, yea it's mineor his, or whatever, but no he's not in the bedroom I usually sleep in." _He's just in my lap. _"I'm also sure you think it's none of my business, but Clark is only here because he doesn't think he belongs at home, or anywhere. He's upset and terrified, and hasn't slept in days."

"I don't have a problem with it. Clark is my son, and I love him with all my heart, but Jonathan is so…" _Dear god, don't say it. I'm a fag. Your child might be one too. Hating us is NOT old-fashioned. It's downright, fucking prejudiced. _"Stubborn," Martha finished at last.

"I don't know much about normal families, but I do know what it feels like to be in his position. He needs the love and support of his family, his whole family, or he's going to start acting out which will make things at home worse, which will make you and Mr. Kent more frustrated, and you will punish him harder, and …well, I think you get the picture."

"I love my son," she said, defensively. "And so does Jonathan." _And yet you won't use your child's name!_ I wasn't sure what my last thought meant, but I wanted to shove my hands down the phone and strangle both Ma and Pa Kent, but my anger may have been more because of Lionel than anything either of them had actually done.

"If I gave him a couple of days to think about this, recover, realize how much his son needs your love and support, would you guys mind if—Clark can stay in one of the guest bedrooms over the weekend." All I could think was, _don't do it! Don't say yes. You're just a few steps away from signing custody of your child over to a total stranger! Even Lionel never gave me away!_

"Maybe it would be better if he came home—not tonight. I need to talk to Jonathan, but that's about all we—is that what Clark wants? Does he want to come home, or does he hate us?"

"I'll make sure to ask him when he wakes up," I lied, but she had no way of knowing that herson was half conscious, tossing and turning in my arms. I mouthed the words "I've got you," and he smiled, before conking out again. "Your son is _not _a freak; he needs to hear that from both of you. He's going to need to hear it a lot."

"How do you know all of this," she whispered, in that motherly, I'm-so-worried-about-you-please-tell-me-what's-wrong-sweetie, voice. "I'm going to bring some of Clark's things over this afternoon okay?" I nodded, stupidly. "And Lex, you're not a freak either." _You don't even know me, _I thought, but said okay, and hung up. Mrs. Kent showed up with Clark's backpack, containing his school books, a change of clothes, his toothbrush, comb, and deodorant, as well as a framed family photograph.

"He's only going to be here overnight…right?"

"Yes, but I thought this might cheer him up"

"That was nice. I guess I'm just not all that used to stuff like that." She gave me a quick handshake and asked how her son was doing. "The cook is making him something to eat. You wanna go and say hi?"

"Really?" I nodded. "Thank you," she sobbed, wrapping her arms around me. "You're a very sweet young man, aren't you?" I stood with my arms at my side, terrified to make a mistake.

"That's sounds like me," I replied sarcastically. "People think I'm my father's son. Don't even bother to get to know me. They expect me to mess up when I do…sorry. People aren't usually polite to me, so I sort of tend to act weird when somebody is. I'll help you find Clark." We walked into the kitchen where he was sitting at the table, a plate piled high with food in front of him, covered in pancakes, eggs, bacon, potatoes, juice, and a little pastry thing. "Easy there, we're gonna run out of food before dinner." Martha shot me a, now-you-know-how-I-feel look.

"I doubt it," he teased back. "You've got more canned peaches than we've got food in our whole house."

"Oh come on, don't be ridiculous. I'm allergic to peaches." Clark shrugged and laughed again. I patted him on the shoulder. He smiled up at me weakly and then turned to his mother, a little nervous.

"How come Dad didn't come," the kid asked her. _Boy do I know how that feels,_ I thought, pathetically. Martha looked almost like she was going to defend her husband's actions, but once again made the right choice. She apologized, and promised to talk to him.

"Maybe I should move into one of the rooms in the mansion," he said, popping a strip of bacon into his mouth.

"I don't think that's a good idea," I cautioned. He looked up at me with those big, blue, puppy-dog eyes. _You don't want me either, _they sobbed. "Your parents love you, Clark. Running away from home isn't going to solve anything, but I'll make you a deal. You can come over here, anytime you want, and I'm your friend so I'll help you, but you gotta try and work things out, or else you're gonna end up like me and Lionel."

"And you're not just saying that to get rid of me, right?" I swore that I really did like him, careful with my word choice and watched longingly as Clark's mother hugged and said goodbye to him, lovingly. "Hey, I have an idea. We should have a slumber party! We could put on our pajamas, stay up late, and watch movies and stuff."

"Ohh, goodie," I mocked. "Can we fix each other's hair, and eat cookie dough ice cream, then throw it up so we don't get fat?" Clark looked like I had stabbed him in the stomach. "I usually don't wear pajamas." That made him feel much better. "I wear a t-shirt and boxers," I explained, blushing just a little. Clark was so excited to that I agreed to his silly little plan, that he ran up the steps towards my room three at a time, throwing on—you guessed it—flannel jammies—while I pulled on some sweats. Then, the two of us curled up on the sofa together. He started off sitting, with his head leaning against my shoulder, but from there it slowly slid down, coming to a rest in my lap, staring up at the TV. Rather than risk upsetting him again, I grabbed a pillow, and slipped it in between my hips and his cheeks, explaining that I had a bony, uncomfortable lap. Even tough he had taken a rather long nap in the afternoon; Clark started to grow tired around 12:30. I led him upstairs to the bedroom, where he bounced onto the mattress, flying a good five feet up into the air, then landing with a thud, finally rubbing the sheets against his face.

"These are so soft," he exclaimed, yawning. I smiled, gently, and kissed his head. "So, um…how, what do you wanna…what exactly is gonna happen tonight?"

"We're gonna go to sleep. It's late—well late for you, I'm still getting used to Farm-time," I explained. Clark didn't laugh. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and the two of us curled up beside each other on the mattress. Clark closed his eyes, opened them, stared up at me for a minute, then his lids fluttered shut again, and he drifted off, peacefully. "I love you, Clark," I whispered, before I fell asleep too.


End file.
